


Stairway to Joy

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), TaleSpin (TV)
Genre: Families of Choice, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Papa Bear Baloo, Proud Dad Scrooge McDuck, Scrooge tells the kids a story, The Joyrider reappears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 08:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18989035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: A moment passed.“You had a plane,” Louie asked.Scrooge swallowed, lowering his head in shame. “No, I didn’t have a plane,” he answered. “But Della did.”--Scrooge tells the kids a long overdue story.





	Stairway to Joy

**Author's Note:**

> It takes place immediately after "The Treasure of the Found Lamp." It's a story Scrooge knows he should've told the boys a long time ago.

Scrooge heard. He listened. His weary eyes twinkled with pride and satisfaction as the children split in separate fractions. Huey and Louie went to the left. Dewey and Webby to the right. Their fingerprints colored glass, and they pressed their foreheads for a better view of the treasures held inside. Abundant questions and explanations crowded at his knees, but that was not important.

Their pleas were the loudest, which made identifying the loudest child impossible. Their volume tangled into each other, and their voices lost their distinctiveness. Scrooge guessed it was Dewey, whose enthusiasm usually projected at the loudest octave, but Webby and Huey were also sensible choices, though the latter was less likely than the former. He didn’t mind their overwhelming excitement this time. Their enthusiasm delighted him, and he smiled at their hungry stares, waiting for more tall tailed adventures.

He told them about the candied striped ruby. It was one of his more peculiar treasures, he admitted, but he was no less proud of it. An abnormally large ruby, and designed in such a way that continued to baffle scientists, his amazement for its skin rivaled his admiration for its monetary value. But money won out in the end. He told his tale, and they clung to every word, every sentence. Their gasps tickled his whiskers. He ended his story with a light knuckle tap on the glass, grinning at his success.

“And…,” drawing his conclusion he stopped at the beginning of his sentence, noticing something was amiss. He counted three head when he knew four were present. Huey. Dewey. Webby. Scrooge raised his head and surveyed the museum. A small worry festered in his chest. Louie was the least likely to cause random trouble. Unlike Dewey. His catastrophes were not instantaneous and required a gradual build, mistake after mistake until the enormity was beyond his control. Scrooge didn’t know why the faint bubble of panic popped in his chest, but its residue fell when he spotted the boy some feet away, gaze upward.

“Louie?”

The others turned to their brother, and they took the initiative to approach him. Scrooge frowned and marched to the wayward child whose attention had swayed.

“You complained that I don’t tell you anything,” he folded one hand over the other on his cane, “and now that I am telling you, you don’t want to listen?” He waiting for the child in the green hoodie to answer, and glared when nothing was provided. Impatience bubbled. He opened his mouth, ready with his sharp retort, but he stopped short. All was silent. Not an unusual occurrence but unfounded under these circumstances. Scrooge glanced at the children and saw their gazes faced upward, rather than straight or some other adjacent direction. He followed and gasped softly.

A moment passed.

“You had a plane,” Louie asked.

Scrooge swallowed, lowering his head in shame. “No, I didn’t have a plane,” he answered. “But Della did.”

Four heads also lowered and questioned him. But unlike their predecessors that pled and nipped at his heels, these questions were silent. Their silence disarmed him. He had arrived in good spirits, more determined than ever to broaden his world for their benefit. What a horror it was for him to gaze at the reminder of his shame and failures. He didn’t run away this time. He didn’t lash out in anger, and they didn’t accuse. He exhaled and rocked on his heels.

“It happened some time ago,” he smiled. Although pain resided in his heart, happiness was its neighbor, and he chose to nurture that instead. “Your mother recently acquired her pilot’s license. Saying she was overjoyed was an understatement. Now that she had gotten what she’d worked years for, it came to solving the issue of obtaining a plane. And there was only one person she could go to.”

* * *

“No?”

“No.”

“But Uncle Scrooge!”

He was in his personal archives, going through the topography section and more focused than ever. He had discovered an unusual ore mine in West Africa and could not shake the feeling something worthwhile waited beneath the Earth’s crust. His attention wasn’t completely occupied. He saw the young woman standing in front of the table he used as his current work desk. He avoided her pointed, pleading eyes, and heard her complaints with a half-deaf ear, a consequence of his refusal to budge on the matter.

“Uncle Scrooge I finally got my license, and now, I can’t even use it,” she groaned. “How can you think this is acceptable?”

“It’s quite acceptable,” he answered, bluntly. He glared at the Idada map he studied, “And they are the tightest of treasure hoarders I’ve ever known. There’s no way I’ll get in there without getting killed, but maybe I can get in contact with one Rain Queen in South Africa.”

“Uncle Scrooge.”

“Yes?”

“My plane.”

At the firm sound of her voice, Scrooge raised his head. A promise of treasure and profit blurred his senses, and he met his niece’s glare with an irritated one of his own. His attention given, he drawled a sigh and removed his bifocals, using his robe to wipe them clean. Della clenched her fists and met his glare without trepidation.

“You want a plane,” Scrooge stated. He returned his bifocals to the higher peak of his beak, “How do you plan to get one?”

Della’s glared squinted. This was what she hated. He was going to pick and poke and prod until she admitted defeat, but this wasn’t the time for defiance, she knew. If she dug her heels in, he’d dig his in deeper. She inhaled and flopped in a chair, and groaned.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I thought maybe I could take out a loan,” she added, sheepishly. She did her best not to wince.

Scrooge chuckled. “Now, darling, I am proud proud you,” Scrooge chuckled. “Earning your pilot’s license is a great accomplishment.”

“When kids earn their driver’s license, their parents buy them cars, or give them their old ones,” she offered, hopefully.

His wry stare made her stomach flop, but it didn’t deter her. Scrooge sat down. And there they were, on opposite sides of the table.

“Hortense and Quackmore put in a lot of stock for their things,” he said, plainly. “And when they gave you your car -,”

“Which I pay the insurance on.”

“I doubt they dreamt you’d get your pilot’s license.”

“Actually,” she crossed her arms on the table surface and rested her head on them, “They were ecstatic, but I think they were hoping for a commercial flier.”

“Fair enough, but I’m not your parent, lassie. And if I were, you’d have to work for what you want.” His tone was light, lacking the familiar sharpness she’d grown used to. He leaned back in his chair, stare observant, and waited for her respond.

She didn’t respond immediately. An uncharacteristic reaction from her. She’d pout and complain about the world’s cruel unfairness, but neither were helpful tactics in Scrooge’s presence. It didn’t matter these were brief stress relieving rants and never lasted longer than three minutes. She wanted to fly, and if she was going to fly, she needed money. A lot of money. She measured her responses. Her disappointment was fair, but disappointment didn’t get anyone anywhere.

She measured what was available, rather than what wasn’t. She didn’t have nearly enough money for a plane. While taking out a loan wasn’t impossible, she currently didn’t have a steady income for payments. Her spirits lifted. One thought led to another, one plan led to another, and suddenly, a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there moments earlier glowed. She hopped off her chair with renewed hope.

“I know what to do,” she exclaimed. “It may not work, and there are tons of holes. But I’m sure I’ll fill it in. Thanks, Uncle Scrooge!”

“Have fun, dearie,” Scrooge said. He returned to his maps, “She’s going to come back after she crashes that plane, but it won’t be my plane.” He chuckled.

* * *

Cape Suzette continued to exist in a world of conflict. She never knew what she was going to find there, being more mysterious and out of bounds than Duckburg. This wasn’t a sightseeing trip. She drove her small, cramped car two hours and forty-five minutes to where she needed to be, and she parked it in front of the establishment. With one sharp glance to the left, she realized she didn’t have to go in.

She walked on the deck and crossed her arms. There wasn’t much to unpack here. Great weather, a moderately warm disposition, and a half-tank of gas, she didn’t have much complaint, but she might’ve complained about this. He was asleep in his favorite hammock, which was in fact his only hammock. His pilot’s cap was tipped over his eyes as a makeshift sleeping mask, and he swayed gently to the side, snoring. She was impressed the hammock carried his weight as well as it did. He was larger than your average sloth bear, but smaller than the common grizzly. She didn’t question it for long.

“Baloo,” she tapped his shoulder. “Baloo, come on, wake up.”

He snored on. Her touches were gnats to him. With a groan and a wave of his paw, he turned on his side, mumbling something about not wanting to be late for school again. Another annoyance. Unlike her encounter in the archives, she came prepared. She reached into her pocket to retrieve a blow horn she purchased at a gas station. She almost apologetic for what she was about to do, but knowing her favorite bear, this was her only option.  
  
She inserted a pair of earplugs and pressed the button.

His eyes shot open. He flailed in his hammock, unable to gather his senses, and fell backwards where the bay waited for him. Della walked to the edge, and set her hands on her knees as she gazed down at the formerly tranquil water. He broke the surface, his pilot stuck swamped on his head, and glared at her sheepish expression.

“Hey, Baloo,” she grinned. “What ya’ doing?”

“I thought I’d take a swim after my afternoon quarterly nap,” he squirted water out of his mouth. “Sounds like you need something, Airhead.”

“Something like that,” she said. “How about we talk after you’ve dried off?”

“You don’t have much of a choice,” he swam to the deck. “Now, help me outta here.” She was on her knees, extending a firm hand for him to grasp. Her laughter was light, harmless, just as he remembered it to be. And for that reason alone, he found it impossible to be mad at her.

“Sure Baloo,” she said, using all her strength to pull the bear back to solid ground. “Whatever you say.”

* * *

It did not take Della long to explain her predicament. She on a worn cushioned chair Baloo was gifted years ago from a former client. He leaned against his desk and listened attentively, nodding every other word or so. By time she finished, he scratched his head in an attempt to think of a solution, though it was apparent to them it had no intention of coming readily.

“I don’t know why you thought asking Old Moneybags was a smart thing to do,” he finally said after a moment’s time. “You know how he is with his dough.” Which was true. This was a universal fact nearly everyone in the world was aware of. But it had seemed like a good plan at the time. Baloo nodded at her unsaid defense, “Asking your uncle should be your last resort, Airhead. Use all your other avenues before pulling out the big guns. You know that.”

She did know better but had been driven to desperation. She chose her last resort first and was burned for it. Cheeks cupped in her hands, she didn’t know what else to do. Complaining relieved her, but it didn’t offer a solution.

“What about you,” she asked. “It’s why I came here in the first place.”

He gave her a look. “What are you going on?”

“Do you know anyone with a plane,” she asked. “I wish I knew tons of people who’d sell me a plane, but other than Uncle Scrooge, you’re the last one standing. And I definitely can’t build one. I’d kill myself! Or lose a leg,” she chuckled, extending her leg with a little shake. “I really don’t want that.”

Baloo cupped his chin in thought, bottom seated on his desk. She winced at the way it creaked and groaned under his weight. For a moment she envisioned the desk finally reaching its maximum capacity, falling apart right beneath him. But its endurance was impressive. He snapped his fingers with a grin, and faced her, gaze twinkling as an epiphany reached his mind.

“Why,” he said, almost half-remembering an important detail he’d forgotten years ago. “I may have something you’ll like.”

Was it hope that bubbled in her chest? Possibly. But she knew better than rely on Baloo to come through 100%. She followed him anyway. Out of the main building, they went to a relatively small storage unit. Baloo pulled the door aside, gritting his teeth as he worked. Dust swept past her feet, and she squinted, hoping to get a better look inside.

“An old pilot buddy of mine and I worked on in during the War,” he swiped his brow and fanned himself with the cap. “When he and his wife started their stunt business, he left the thing with me, but I didn’t have much for it.”

Della stepped inside. Her jaw hung low as her pupils dilated. A manic giggle slipped freely before erupting into joyous laughter.

It was a biplane. Rusted with age, it’d seen better days, but it was more than she expected, better than she dreamed. She glanced at Baloo, who simply nodded where a chuckle dangled on his lips. She didn’t waste any time. She ran to the retired aircraft and admired its beauty.

“You’ve had this all along and didn’t tell me,” she surveyed the propellor and wings. “Baloo, you were holding out on me!”

“I’ll say I misplaced my memory of it,” he scratched his head, turning on the light. “Haven’t flown this baby ever in some time. The day I bought the Sea Duck I didn’t see a reason to turn back.”

Della didn’t hear anything else. She was ensnared. She imagined the worlds she was going to fly to, the danger she planned to escape. Its condition wasn’t the worse she’d seen, and she wiped her finger along the wing’s edge. When she brought raised it, testing the texture between pointer and thumb, she saw it’d colored her feathers a reddish brown.

“Rusty with experience and knowledge,” she sighed, smile clinging to her beak. “Oh Baloo,” she cried, unable to contain her excitement, “this is fantastic. How much do you want for it?”

She spun to meet him wearing a frown on her face. Baloo’s expression was uncomfortably grave, the most serious she’d ever seen him. It connected, she beloved at the time. Piloting was his first and truest love; the sort of affection a person reserved for their first born child. His muzzle twisted to the side, and his fingers curled around it, contemplating his response.

He walked slowly, extending his feet with each step. It’d pull a laugh out if not for the subject at hand. Della found worry flopping in her stomach like a dying fish.

“I have some money saved up,” she offered, a little desperately. She stumbled over her words, “It’ll be enough for the costs, and I’m sure Gyro can tune it up.”

He chuckled. Della stopped mid sentence, and she tilted her head, confused. His chuckle increased into a laugh that quickly multiplied. He bent over, gripping his sides as he trembled with humor. She didn’t know whether moving or talking was an option. She stood there, patient and debating whether this was some sort of cruel joke.

He pressed his wrists onto his eyes, wiping away fat tears, and rested an elbow on the wing in front her. With a smirk, one that was like and unlike him in one turn, he cocked his head to the side and curved his brow.

“Baloo, you’re scaring me.”

“Airhead, you should know better.”

Her heart dropped. She looked away, eyes burning with shame and embarrassment. “I understand,” she hiccuped, wiping her tears off with her sleeve. “Do you know where I can go?”

Baloo chuckled and clasped her shoulder. His massive paw covered her bony shoulder completely, and she glanced warily, willing her disappointment to take flight in the other direction.

“Why I’ll tell Wildcat to come up here to start on the repairs,” he said. “He’s probably napping anyways.”

Della blinked. “So you’re going to sell it,” she gasped. “To who!? I bet I can beat their offer!”

Confusion dragged his cheeks, but he quickly recovered. “Airhead, you really are an airhead.” His knuckles knocked on her forehead softly, “Come on kid, let’s go ask Wildcat to repair your plane.”

Della was speechless. She pressed her hand to her chest, watching the bear dance out of the storage unit. She glanced at the plane, and joy surged throughout her.

“Joyrider,” she whispered, pressing her face on the wing. “You’ll be Joyrider.”

“Della.” Baloo turned, “Get off that thing, it’s filthy.”

“Oh! Right!” Head raised, she didn’t look in the window, and she didn’t have to. A coat of rust covered the left side of her head, and she wiped frantically as she ran towards him, giggling maniacally.

“This is going to be the best day ever,” Della shouted as she ran ahead. “Wildcat is the best mechanic ever!”

Baloo was incredulous at the statement. “Course he is, don’t know why you wanted that quack scientist to touch this baby,” he closed the unit half-way. “He’d probably blow it sky high or send it back in time or turn it evil.”

“Gyro wouldn’t do that intentionally.”

“You think,” he snorted.

“You didn’t see the automatic plant grower he created a few weeks ago.”

“Do I want to know?”

Della shrugged, “I don’t think you want to. Uncle Scrooge is still paying off the damages when the plant tried to overthrow the city with its singing and dancing.”

“Right, right,” he nodded. He recalled the news broadcast about the plant named Aubrey. He admitted it didn’t look as bad on television, just an overcooked brussel sprout, but he hadn’t visited Duckburg in several weeks. He didn’t think recovery efforts were as productive as they would like.

“Race you to Wildcat,” Della smirked. She sped away, sprinting down the deck and leaping off, grabbing a pole as she swung underfoot to Wildcat’s abode.

Baloo’s stunned speechlessness whittled under amazement. “Airhead, now you know old Baloo can’t do that spinny trick,” he whistled, deciding to take the long way to Wildcat’s garage.

“Come on Papa Bear,” she called to him below. “Wildcat agreed to fix up the Joyrider.” Her smile shamed the sun itself. Its brightness could’ve blinded a person. “We’re on a stairway to heaven,” she beamed. “Hurry up, we need to help him get his supplies!”

Another round of laughter rumbled in his stomach. The old pilot carried himself below the main building where laughter and promise conspired to send a budding pilot to the stars.

“Alright,” he shouted with good humor on his tongue, “hold on to your goggles. We don’t want to break anything we can’t fix.”

* * *

“Is Baloo alive?”

Of the questions he could’ve asked, this was the one that blurted out of Louie’s mouth. He didn’t regret it.

His question was justified, or that’s what it appeared to be when Scrooge glanced at him. Nothing was ever what it appeared to be. He rolled his shoulders.

“As far as I know he’s still in Cape Suzette, making his deliveries and costing some company a fortune in damages,” he added darkly. It was safe to assume this company wasn’t a subsidiary of McDuck Enterprises. “But for all his incompetence, he is the best pilot around.”

“Better than Mom,” Dewey asked, unable to take his eyes off the Joyrider. “I thought she was the best pilot around.”

“Third best pilot.”

“Third?”

Huey grinned, “I’m assuming you’re counting Launchpad.”

“There are others,” he said simply. He didn’t elaborate on these others, choosing to leave a little mystery in the children’s lives. He smirked slightly. “Your mother learned to fly from the absolute best, and at a reasonable price,” he smirked slightly, “he was the one who gave her what she needed to be an expert aviator flying under my name.”

“What’s that,” Louie asked.

“Intuition,” Scrooge winked. “The ability to escape any folly or dangerous situation using only your wits and skills. Baloo’s the laziest lug known to man, but he’s crafty and quick witted when it suits him. And it always suited him when it came to your mother.”

Louie returned to the biplane. Its rust and chipped paint were painted over in a new, shiny coat. Its stable condition was preserved since the last time its owner flew it over a decade ago. But that was the problem, he realized standing beneath it. In good condition with its powerful engine, the biplane was as good as its pilot, and the vacancy its pilot left couldn’t be filled.

“They sound like quite a pair,” Louie whispered.

"Yes," Scrooge smiled through grief's softening remnants, "yes, me boy, they truly were." 

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely adore the headcanon that Baloo taught Della how to fly. He was close to Launchpad's family, seeing they're all pilots.


End file.
